Part 5 For the Love of a Dog

For The Love of a Dog Part 5

I loved Maxwell, his endless curiosity, his nose always at the ground sniffing, whether he was inside or out. When I'd bring home groceries he'd have his nose in the bags if they were set on the floor.  If we brought something in the house he was unfamiliar with, like tools or a new decoration for the house, his nose would be in overdrive inspecting everything for his approval.  He didn't use his eyes to examine and scrutinize life, he used his nose. Sometimes this would cause anxiety and bring adversity to his life.  If his nose bumped a can or a box causing it to fall over with a bang, off he'd go, to a safe corner or under the table, trembling with fear, yet still inquisitive, just waiting until he deemed it safe again.  

 
Perhaps that is why I love hounds so much, because they're like me. They have their noses to the ground, smelling every smell.  Concentrating only on what's in front of them at the moment; failing to also look at the big picture. It's easy for me to get tunnel vision, because I take in every detail on the small matters forgetting that God's plan and purpose is much larger than me or my understanding. 

But oh how wonderful are the details, how lovely a flower looks close up. It's only when we get close up that we can smell it's fine aroma.  But it's good to take a step back and also see the bouquet, with all its colors and shapes.

The everyday repetitiveness of life easily discourages me.  The same old-same old, can cause me to easily become melancholy. It had become hard for me to see the big picture, and to remember life is made up of small everyday occurrences repeated and repeated, mundane yet important. During those times of despondency it was difficult on my family. I'd want to be left alone, left to myself. I'd retreat to my bedroom for refuge from a painful world.  Maxwell, always the faithfully dog would be beside me, happy to cuddle with me, devoted and prepared to comfort to me.  

I took to writing in a journal, every thought, every prayer, I would write down; always scribbling down my feelings, trying to make sense of it all.  Any offense or pretense from a family member could be a trigger that would send me to a place of inner retreat.  Life's tasks like grocery shopping had become an overwhelming experience. It wasn't logical, but that's where I was. 

I cannot remember the culmination that caused me to finally cry out to the Lord.  Except that I had become desperate for help and for answers. More importantly I needed my relationship with Jesus to return again to the fellowship I once had.

My heart was telling me that the assistance I needed could only come from God.  My feelings and the emotions I'd hidden were not so big and horrible that I could not take them to God.

Before I continue let me explain what was happening.  After Timothy's death I had tried to go on with life as usual.  But what I had done was suppress everything I was feeling inside of me. I was pushing them down, and it was now increasingly more difficult to keep these feelings buried. The feelings I am describing are not the normal grief after a loss, but a deep resentment and anger toward God. Just days after Timmy died I tried to share with a fellow Christian what was taking hold in my heart but was chastised for it.  Believing that I was wrong and these feelings were inappropriate, I feigned they didn't exist by burying them and dismissing them. 

So there I lay, in my bed with my faithful companion next to me, truly willing for the first time (since Timmy's death) to expose my soul to God.  Yes, I knew He already knew what was in my heart, but I was finally willing to allow myself to speak to Him about it and admit to myself that I was harboring these feelings.  One by one I began to empty myself of all the deep seated emotions and was now allowing them to come to the surface…  

1.) The anger: That God allowed this to happen.  God had healed my little baby boy in 1987 and had sustained him for thirteen years and had now taken him from me. I felt that God was an Indian giver (yes, I know that isn't a politically correct term, but that was how I felt). 

2.) The hurt:  After all I was a good mother! Living in the inner city I had witnessed children being neglected, ignored, and treated like they were nothing more than an inconvenience. Why take Timmy? He was loved, cared for, and he gave me and everyone who ever knew him joy. I loved being a mom, as a little girl all I ever wanted was to be… a mother. I enjoyed it; I loved every aspect of mothering (except the laundry!). 

3.) The pain: This is indescribable; unless you've lost a child there is no possible way to understand this. Never had I ever experienced such emptiness, such darkness. The best way to describe the pain is it's the deepest, darkest, coldest, loneliest, hopeless, and endless pit that one can seemingly never escape from. 

4.) Questioning my faith: The questions were endless. The main question being, what did I do wrong to have caused God to take my little boy from me?

5.) God's love:  I could no longer believe that God really loved me. Oh, I believed that God loved everyone, collectively, but not in an individual way, at least not with me.

6.) Distrust of God:  This is how I felt. I had lost confidence in God's protecting arms. He may still protect others but He doesn't and won't protect me.

7.) Resentment:  I had aggrieved feelings from a sense of having been badly treaty by God.

 I always believed there was a God. As a child growing up, church and faith were important. Although I wasn't taught about salvation, I still believed in the Lord. I accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior when I was 24 years old. Now at the age of 41 everything seemed vain, and hallow, all seemed pointless.  To put it bluntly, I was a mess!

Next time: We have a BIG GOD!